Re-re-wind

If you missed it, here’s a review of each of the performers tonight – featuring “floor-humping”, “coke-bloated chirpsing”, “a defibrillation paddle” and a “public grief bomb”. Which makes the whole event sound much more exciting than it actually was.

Coldplay, Adele, the Weeknd and more – every Brits performance reviewed

Live review No 9 – Adele

The problem with Adele’s Grammy performance wasn’t the twanging piano strings (negligible) or the tuning errors (minuscule), but rather her increasing tendency to project everything in a colourless, bleating cadence; where once she’d denote emotional complexity with a sudden coo or breath, now she’ll make some sassy hand gesture do the heavy lifting, like a young cousin losing an argument. Here she performs When We Were Young, which plays to her quivering low register and that lovely ruminative midrange, saving the (slightly hectoring) upper notes for the chorus. The peak top note isn’t crystal; the squeaks and deliberate note-breaks could easily become mannered. But the guttural shove she gives the final chorus is pure soul, and ultimately this is big satisfying balladry, like custard and crumble. And at her best, she gives lyrical platitudes back their universal meaning.

It's all over!

Nice modest performance from Adele, there. A backdrop glistening like a galaxy. Big vocals, and a big song with a big message: age, ageing, love, loss – a lifetime of emotions in four minutes.

If you are reading this, Adele: I may have had a bottle of white wine, but I thought, maybe, on your tour, well, maybe I could come on stage for this performance and do an interpretive dance? Nothing fancy, just some gentle cartwheels and some star jumps. Might jazz it up a bit, that’s all. Up to you, obvs.

Anyway, that’s it for the 2016 Brits. My verdict? Catfish frontman Van McCann missed his chance at becoming the next big gobby indie frontman. Adele did really well, as expected. And most importantly, Rihanna, Drake and Lorde seemed to steal the show, which is kind of depressing considering they’re not Brits. And this is the Brit awards.

Live review No 8 – the Weeknd

BBT v Abel Tesfaye!

The wonderful Earned It turned the Weeknd from a pervert who induced Q4 jitters to a viable Michael Jackson stooge going out with Bella Hadid, and as such vies with Bieber for the international male career turnaround gong. He performs The Hills, which is textbook Weeknd: pitch-black, coke-bloated chirpsing drenched in distrust that leads, eventually, to dead-eyed sexual congress. The swear-bleep man cheerfully lets “I only fuck you when it’s half past five” into ITV land, as the arrangement embraces the gnarliness with some ultra-heavy guitar and big smashed-glass visuals. It’s short but energetic and edifying, exactly unlike the intercourse it sounds like he indulges in.

Live review No 7 – Lorde plays Bowie

Lorde performing Life on Mars, styled in Yves Saint Laurent, with David Bowie’s band. Photograph: David Fisher/Rex Shutterstock

Ben Beaumont-Thomas takes on the big performance of the night.

Surely nothing will be worse than Lady Gaga’s well-meaning but misjudged tribute at the Grammys, which was like Liza Minnelli trying to shout off a bout of sleep paralysis; cruise missiles and Kanye tweets have connected with more subtlety that the segues between its songs. It was basically Hallo Spaceboy! The David Bowie Musical Jamboree (Coming to Broadway Spring 2017), and only underlined how Bowie’s star quality had been made truly ineffable with his death. What can the Brits offer? Well, there is certainly nothing more quintessentially Brits than the words: “Please welcome Annie Lennox!” She pays testament to “a fixation in the British psyche” in a speech that straddles cliche and insight. The cut to Graham Coxon munching a canape takes the gloss off somewhat, but no matter, here’s Gary Oldman to join the remembrance. He is predictably articulate, picking a choice quote from Bowie on his own music: a “sublime means of communication when I want to touch people; it has been both my doorway of perception and the house I live in.” Whether you think this public grief bomb needed to be detonated, it’s dignified. Clench for the music … and all is much better than the Grammys. Space Oddity begets Rebel Rebel begets Let’s Dance – it’s a megamix, but far more deftly handled (by Bowie’s own band, no less) than Gaga’s lurching. Lorde sings Life on Mars, and she can’t capture Bowie’s blend of music-hall singer and travelling bard – it’s a little breathily earnest and pedantic. But there’s still something sumptuous and soulful about her take, and again, it’s dignified. Is “dignified” too safe for Bowie? Well, he was never a punk – honesty and keen feeling is just right.

British artist video of the year...

Harriet Gibsone

As voted for by the fans, so naturally, it’s One Direction.

Louis and Liam are here to collect the award. Just the two of them. One D are definitely still OK. Not going to split up after their hiatus. Definitely going to get back together and write more albums forever until we all die.

An astronaut speaks!

After Annie Lennox’s emotional speech, Gary Oldman has picked up the mic:

“We are all coming to terms with the magnitude of David’s passing,” he says. “David’s contribution to popular culture itself has no equal, he’s the very definition, the living embodiment of that word, icon.”

If anyone planned a stage invasion, now is probably not the best time.

International female solo artist...

Harriet Gibsone

Goes to Björk. It’s her fourth win in this category.

But she’s not here. She’s in space with Tim Peake, apparently. According to reports, she got on the spacecraft thinking it was a normal plane and now she’s stuck out there for the next few years. Best of luck up there, Björk.

Live review No 6 – Little Mix

What did our Ben make of Little Mix, eh?

Jason Derulo suitors Little Mix here, who, in between providing the Sun’s Bizarre column with a stream of staggeringly unremarkable but at least regular content, make the occasional solid gold pop banger – of which Black Magic is undeniably one. It initially gets a exoticised voodoo-tribal update, which is swiftly dispensed for the chorus, which reverts to the perky fantasy-scribbled-on-A4-school-binder vibe of the original. There’s lots of floor-humping a la Destiny’s Child’s Survivor and equal amounts of Amazonian sass-power. Zero danger compared with Rihanna’s enjoyably loose performance, but if you like absolute steel-tipped professionalism, you’ll have clapped along delightedly.